


Aurum

by Nepthys



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-05
Updated: 2009-07-05
Packaged: 2017-10-06 00:02:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nepthys/pseuds/Nepthys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a little bit of smut - Gene's thoughts during a night of passion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aurum

Gene doesn't think – not that he can think much at all right now, because Jesus _Christ_ that's good - and he's not absolutely sure, because even after two months of doing this it still feels new and shocking every single time, but he doesn't think that it has felt quite like this before.

Not like _this_. Like he's burning up; being consumed from the inside out. Only it's Sam he wants to consume, devour, swallow whole. And that's really peculiar, when you stop to think about it. But he's not thinking - or stopping, for that matter. He's trying to help things along but his movement is limited by Sam's weight in his lap and so Gene's having to rely on Sam to do most of the work, lifting himself up and then lowering back down onto Gene's length.

This is new.

Well, not _this_; not him and Sam fucking – oh, _bloody hell_ – and Gene has to focus on something else for a moment in case he pushes himself too close to the edge so he concentrates on the faded floral wallpaper - Vera's choice, and he's never really liked it and he's hit by the sudden giddy realisation that he can get rid of it now, paint over it maybe - and then Sam is tightening around him and Gene's attempts at self-distraction are washed away on a tide of sensation.

This position - that's what's new. In the armchair, Sam straddling him, and all Gene can see is his back: the ridiculously short hair at the nape of his neck; the ridge of his spine trailing down, down, to where they are joined; to where Gene's cock comes into view – glistening and glossy, and _God almighty_ – as Sam leans forward, raising himself, thigh muscles bunching, and Gene silently swears never, ever to take the piss again when Sam goes out running of a morning. For now, he allows his eyes to fall shut, lulled by Sam's slow glide, steady like a rocking boat.

Gene hadn't really thought beyond their first encounter, fumbled and frantic. Hadn't allowed himself to wonder what else there might be beyond the morning after the night before. But now, when he feels like this, he finally feels like there's something he can dare to think about; something that might still be here come tomorrow; something he can let himself want. And part of his brain – the small part not occupied with the feel of Sam on and around him – ponders that for a moment. He can't remember ever having anything of his own that he wanted – _really_ wanted – like this before. Things – toys, people, jobs; most things in life, really – always seem to end up being a disappointment, the shiny appeal turning out to be nothing more than tin foil stuck on cardboard, and Gene is starting to realise how long he's lived with this want, this gnawing hunger, without even recognising it.

Gene's fingers slide on sweat-slick skin as he struggles to thrust and it hits him that although he's the one doing the penetrating it's Sam who has filled Gene up, finally satisfying the hollow ache he's carried around for so long. And if this is obsession or possession, or whatever-the-hell, then he really doesn't care because they satisfy each other – even if Gene is filling Sam in an altogether more literal sense. Though it's difficult to do that in this position: the angle is good but the depth is frustratingly shallow, and Gene eases his hands underneath Sam, giving his arse an encouraging squeeze and gently spreading him wider, hearing Sam's grunt of satisfaction as he slides that bit lower.

It was Sam's idea, this position. And for a bloke taking it up the arse on a regular basis he's a pushy little bugger – although having seen him at work Gene really couldn't have expected he'd be any different in bed. Pushy and endlessly inventive, much to Gene's continuing delight (well, for as long as his heart holds out because it probably isn't supposed to be hammering itself right out of his chest like that). Sam is speeding up a little, his control faltering, and Gene braces himself against the armchair, feeling the roughness of the fabric against the backs of his knees.

He knows he's getting close, and he's seized with the urge to make his mark, however temporary, so he slides one arm around Sam's waist to hold him firmly in place and the other around to grip Sam's cock just how Sam likes it, and sinks his teeth into the flesh between spine and shoulder blade, sucking a love bite into the skin as Sam, back arching, starts to come. It's not really a mark of possession, more like a declaration; an oath; an unspoken vow. And Gene wonders how something so forbidden tastes like freedom.

Some days, Gene dreams about staking his claim. Making his declaration. Some grand public gesture to show that Sam is not just his DI, but _his_. But, setting aside the career-ending, socially-disgracing outcome, he's not even sure it's true. Occasionally brilliant and occasionally barking mad, Sam is always wilful and stubborn, and the idea of anyone owning him is laughable. And maybe that's no bad thing. Because it means that Sam is here – in Gene's life, in Gene's lap, coursing through his very veins – because he _wants_ to be.

And that's not tin foil, it's pure solid bloody gold.

 

***

END 


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